


Suledin

by lyriumlovesong



Series: The Rabbit and The Lion [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Comfort, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumlovesong/pseuds/lyriumlovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen visits Freya's guest room at the Winter Palace, and she learns she's not quite as powerless to help him as she thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suledin

Freya stared up at the dancing shadows on the ceiling of her room at the Winter Palace, unable to quiet her mind enough to sleep. It didn’t help that her evening had strayed about as far from their original plan as it was possible to go. She certainly hadn’t walked in thinking she’d kill a whole band of Venatori agents, uncover a plot to assassinate Empress Celine (masterminded by her own cousin, no less), get Duke Gaspard banished from the kingdom, _and_ rekindle a relationship between the Empress and her elven lover. But even if all _had_ gone to plan--she snorted at the idea of that ever happening in her life--she’d probably still be lying awake, unable to rest.

Everything about Orlesian culture made her feel out of place. Sure, she had memorized her table settings and carried on intelligent conversations about Thedosian politics with her hostess. She’d played their Game. She’d even choked down a few snails.

 _Snails!_ she thought, shaking her head. Creators only knew whose bright idea it was to pick one of those up and eat it, and Fen’Harel take them for coming up with it, too. They were disgusting, slimy things with a texture somewhere between jelly candies and old leather. The rest of the food had been okay, she conceded, though she privately felt that the Orlesians’ fondness for sauces bordered on obsession.

But regardless of her willingness to adopt their customs for the night, the whole place made her deeply uncomfortable. The Dalish didn’t have a word for “opulence,” but if they did it would be said with the same sort of expression they wore when saying words like “leeches” or “feces” or “Exalted March.” Everything here seemed to be covered in velvet or dipped in gold. She squirmed uncomfortably on her down pillow, which was much too squishy.

And the _masks…_ Everyone walking around with their faces covered up all the time was much eerier than anything she’d encountered thus far. (Which was saying a _lot,_ given that in the last few months she’d killed more than her fair share of walking corpses. Terrifying, sure, but least you knew where they stood.)

 _Not that the night didn’t have its high points_ , she thought, remembering the dance she had shared with Cullen on the balcony. She couldn’t contain a smile as she thought about swaying in time to the soft music under the stars with him, the rest of the world fading into the background until it was just the two of them. And having his body that close to hers for so long, not having to hide their affections behind their own masks of professionalism for once… it had made her hungry for much more than they could risk here.

 _If we were anywhere else tonight, I’d have climbed him like a tree_ , she mused, frowning.

She sighed, flinging her legs around under the thick brocade duvet and kicking it off. It was suddenly much too warm.

A soft tapping noise sounded at the door, almost inaudible. She grinned impishly to herself. Apparently she wasn’t the only person who had been thinking about the dance. She got out of bed, throwing an obnoxiously frilly housecoat on over her equally ruffly night dress (gifts left in her room by her hostess), and tiptoed across the room. She opened the door as quietly as she could. Sure enough, Cullen was standing there, looking nervously down the hall.

But as soon as he turned back to face her, Freya knew that dancing wasn’t on his mind. He was shaking violently, and sweat drenched his tunic. There were beads of perspiration forming on his temples, too, some lingering there and others cascading down his cheeks.

She stepped aside and let him in, and then she glanced up and down the hallway and, seeing no one there, shut the door silently behind her.

“Oh, _ma’nehn_ ,” she said as Cullen sank onto the edge of the bed, his whole body trembling.

“Water?” he asked her weakly, and she hurried to her pitcher and poured him a glass, filling it almost to the brim. _Only the finest crystal goblets for quenching your nighttime thirst_ , she thought to herself as she carried it back to him. She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

Sitting down beside Cullen, she handed it to him, and he took a long drink.

“Thank you,” he said, gasping a little as he came up for a breath. “I drained my pitcher an hour ago.”

He took another huge gulp and handed it back. She set it down on her bedside table and laid a hand across his brow.

“ _Sylaise halani ma_ ,” she said, frowning with concern. “You’re burning up.”

She crossed back to the pitcher and splashed some water into an ornate porcelain basin, then grabbed her face towel and dampened it. She brought it back to him and laid it against his forehead. He closed his eyes and placed a hand on top of hers as she held the cloth there, squeezing her fingers gently in a silent gesture of thanks.

She looked at the sweaty shirt clinging to his skin and tugged on the sleeve of it.

“On or off?” she asked. “That looks uncomfortable.”

“Off,” he said gruffly, and she helped him out of it. Cool air hit Cullen’s skin, chilling the sweat running over his body. Freya took the tunic over to a plush armchair, laying it out across the back to dry.

“Would you like to lay down?”

“I’ll get sweat all over your bed,” he said, eyes shut tight as he held the damp towel in place. The headache was manageable tonight, but he couldn’t control the damn tremors, and the body aches made him feel like he’d been beaten with a war hammer.

“It’s _me_ , Cullen,” Freya said gently. “Stop being polite and let me help. Please?”

He gave her a look of reluctance but reclined slowly anyway, Freya adjusting the pillows and moving covers out of the way as he did. Then she sat on the edge of the bed at his feet and began to gently remove his boots. His body shook so hard that it was much more difficult a task than it ought to have been, his sweaty skin sticking to the leather insides of the tall shaft.

She tossed them onto the floor with a thud and turned back to him. He’d laid her towel flat over his chest, trying to cool his body more. Freya stood and got the basin of water. She set it down on the bedside table next to his goblet and took the cloth again, dunking it and wringing it out.

“You know, we’re starting to get into a frustrating pattern here. You shirtless, me rubbing your body. Bit of a tease for me, really.”

“I’ll try to stop getting stabbed and having lyrium withdrawal if it’s inconveniencing you, then,” he answered shakily, a clear note of irritation in his voice.

Freya suddenly felt her face flush, hot with shame.

“I didn’t mean to be insensitive, _ma’nehn_... I’m sorry. I was only trying to lighten things a little.”

She applied the cloth to his chest, her fingers hesitant, and he sighed. He knew he shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. Humor was Freya’s defense mechanism, and it couldn’t be easy for her to deal with his episodes. He didn’t like to remember what it had been like to watch _her_ suffer and have no way to stop it.

“I know you were,” he said, squeezing her wrist. “I’m sorry I bit your head off. I’m just not really in a joking mood at the moment.” He paused, letting her finish dabbing at his torso with the cool water, then said, “Come to bed, will you?”

Realizing she was still rather warm herself, Freya draped the cloth over her basin, then stood and peeled off the housecoat she was wearing. She gave it a disdainful look and hung it back up on its hook.

She went around to the empty side of the bed and crawled in. Feeling utterly helpless, she watched him lie on her pillow, shivering.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing for her to come closer.

“You’re so warm. I didn’t want to crowd you.”  
  
“I don’t care,” he replied. “I want you close to me. If I boil alive, at least I’ll die happy.”

Freya obliged, and he folded into her, laying his head against her chest. She wrapped her thin arms around him and ran her fingers through his sweat-soaked curls.

The room was silent for a moment as they lay there together. Cullen’s shivering had calmed a little, but his body still ached. Laying awake in his own bed half an hour ago, he’d been wondering how he could make it through this, how he’d ever be able to break his leash and free himself from his cursed addiction. Freya had been right in that there was power in physical touch, but what he’d really wanted tonight was her _words_ \--her confident reassurance that he was strong enough to beat this.

“Do the Dalish sing songs to bring comfort in times of difficulty?” he asked her.

“Of course we do. Doesn’t everyone?”

“You know any? I could use one.”

“Oh, Cullen,” Freya said, suddenly very uncomfortable. “You’re the one with the golden voice. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Besides, I don’t know how to sing it in the Trade tongue.”

“If it comes from your lips I’m sure it will be beautiful,” he said. “Please?”

Freya found herself utterly unable to tell him “no” in this moment, him lying in her arms and quaking, asking her for what was, in reality, a simple thing. She sighed heavily and took a deep breath, and feeling about as far from confident as she ever had, she began to sing in a halting voice. He felt the vibrations of her words as he lay against her, drinking them in.

 

“ _Melava inan enansal,_  
_ir su araval tu elvaral_  
_u na emma abelas._  
_In elgar sa vir mana,  
__in tu setheneran din emma na._

 _Lath sulevin,_  
_lath araval ena_  
_arla ven tu vir mahvir._  
_Melana ‘nehn_  
_enasal ir sa lethalin_.”  
  
  
She finished the last word on a drawn-out note that wavered unsteadily at the end. She was right--her pitch was, by any kind of professional standard, terrible. But as a Templar, Cullen had heard an endless stream of professional choruses of Chantry sisters with trained voices, and their songs had never bolstered him half as much as it had to hear Freya sing in her native tongue. He hadn’t understood the words, but they made his heart full, regardless.

“See?” he said. “ _Beautiful_.”

“Off-key,” she replied, blushing.

“If music always had to be perfect to make people feel things, nobody would sing,” he told her.

She considered this, remembering her mother’s love of song. She had inherited her talent for rhythm and dance, and similarly her utter lack of talent for vocals. But Freya had never disliked it when her _mamae_ sang to her, regardless of how out of tune it had been, and it had never diminished her mother’s enjoyment in doing it, either.

“What do the words mean?” Cullen asked.

Freya ran through the lyrics again silently, translating them in her mind.

“It’s about the loss of our homelands, ages ago. It tells us to take strength from our heritage, to push through our sorrows. And it tells us not to lose hope, that a path to triumph will emerge and we will know happiness again.” She paused, then said, “I’m not sure if that was the sort of song you were looking for. I didn’t have much time to think about it.”

“It was perfect.”

She smiled, kissing the top of his head. And then it dawned on her that his body had been remarkably still for the past minute or so.

“Cullen, you’ve stopped shivering.”

“So I have,” he said. “It always stops, eventually. You don’t mind if I stay here like this for awhile anyway, do you?”

“I would love that, _ma’nehn_.”

“Good,” he answered, and she felt him slide his hands tighter around her, nuzzling into her neck. He noticed for the first time that her nightgown was covered in lacy ruffles, and his face broke into a grin. “Freya?”

“Hmmm?”

“What in the name of Andraste are you _wearing_?”

“Not another word, Commander Rutherford,” she told him, gently flicking his ear. He laughed a little, and she smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“You have that effect on me. In a lot of ways.”

“I’m not sure what I did,” she said, shrugging, “other than snuggle and sing badly to you.”

“That was enough,” he said simply, and Freya was reminded of something Cole had said to her once:  _“He feels stronger when you hold him._ ”

  
And she thought that maybe she _did_ understand, after all.  
  


_________________________

 

Cullen allowed himself a couple of hours of sleep in Freya’s arms--the most blissful rest he’d gotten in ages--before untangling himself from her. She stirred, then opened her eyes sleepily.

“Leaving?” she asked.

“Yes, I think I’d better. We’ve caused enough of a stir here without the Commander of the Inquisition being caught in the Inquisitor’s bed.”

“You think that’s the most sordid thing that happened after the ball, with all that wine?” She arched an eyebrow.

“Probably an accurate assessment, my dear,” he replied with a grin. “But nonetheless. Appearances. Sorry I woke you up, but I did make you a promise.”

He leaned over and touched his lips to hers with tenderness.

“Always kiss you goodbye, right?”

“Right,” she said, smiling and stroking his cheek.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he whispered. “Snails on toast!”  
  
She snickered, rolling over and closing her eyes again. She could hear the soft sounds of him pulling his tunic over his head, then a few quiet footsteps as he made his way to the door and slipped through it.

Outside the room, Cullen shut the door silently and straightened. He turned around. With a start, he realized that a few feet down the hall, one of Empress Celine’s guards was watching him. He could imagine exactly the sort of look he was being given underneath the gilt mask. He walked quietly over to the guard and, leaning over, spoke in an undertone near the man’s ear.

“There will be a small pile of sovereigns outside the door to my room in two minutes’ time. You never saw this happen.”  
  
“Saw what happen, Commander?” the guard asked, shrugging. He looked the other way, and Cullen slipped past him down the hall, boots in hand.


End file.
